The following is told by Mickey, the narrator from the novel “BLOOD: The New Red”:

So two hours prior I get off a plane from Arizona where I just spent 28 days, uh, rehabbing and my manager lets me know that “BLOOD: The New Red” is out and available. Given the lies from the previous book, “Corporate Porn”, I assume the worst. Still, my manager wanted to throw a party. Cool, let’s do it! My manager told me A&E and TMZ were fighting over the rights to host the party. I was bummed FX wasn’t showing interest, but then I became distracted once I heard Coldplay may show up. The location was a secret only to be tweeted minutes prior. When I heard the party was in two hours I became anxious: how was I to find the perfect pair of aviators in two hours? My manager calmed me by saying, “Mickey, it’s okay, Ryan Seacrest has declined.” This was calming.

After several hours I arrived at the party.

We are at a bar in TriBeCa and sitting across from me is David S. Grant, the author of “BLOOD: The New Red”, the book that is about me PLUS a lot of lies; although, I haven’t read it so I’m not sure what is real and what is not. Also, I take a lot of medications so it’s possible I don’t know my own reality. I look away, of course, he is staring at me. I am wearing dark (VERY DARK) aviators so he has no idea I see him. I turn and walk the other way.

TMZ won the bidding war and have set up several cameras. My manager positions them to get my good sides and then asks me to take off my glasses for a moment. There is a gasp when people see my eyes. “Your eyes, they are so…Blue?” I get this a lot. Given my prescriptions a lot of people just assume my natural eye color is red, blood red. My manager pulls me over into a corner. I put my aviators back on and then my manager gives me a B12 shot in my thigh and then hands me a shot of Patron Silver.

The author reads the first chapter and stumbles through the good parts and then says something about me doing coke with John Stamos and I’m pretty sure I’ve never met this person before. My manager whispers “Uncle Jessie” and I nod. Yes, that did happen. I pull my manager back over to the corner and ask if he has any morphine. He looks horrified and pushes me over to the bar where I have another shot of Patron Silver.

I feel in my pockets for a Vicodin. I REALLY need one now. Hairs on my back stand up as I listen to the reading. There is this notion of the Seventh Avenue world of designs, drugs, and magazines passing itself off as the definition of cool. NO, they are just a conduit to what people want. I look around and realize everyone is staring at me. I hear the author discuss my leather pants. Yes, Mickey is back.

The band Coldplay shows up and are very drunk, but Bono and The Edge are also there and play a short acoustic set that ends with me standing on a bar singing “Where The Streets Have No Names.” Everyone cheers, buys me shots of Patron Silver, and tell me I’m amazing. I shrug and then Rikki Rocket shows up wearing a black leather cowboy hat and says he has a Town Car gassed and ready to go so we leave, take off our shirts, and drive though Times Square where we pick up two girls at the Blue Fin W bar. Both girls are named Stoli so we take them to a club named FIX and then maybe we end up at a male strip club named Bananas, although this is where the night starts to become fuzzy. I may or may not have been on stage and that is the last scene I remember before my manager pulls me out of the Town Car that is parked at LaGuardia and drags me into the airport. As my manager pushes me through the security line he tells me I was on stage, was completely nude, and was yelling “Mickey Is Back!” I ask my manager if I looked good and he nods.

Apparently there is a rehab facility in New Mexico expecting my arrival.

Join David S. Grant, author of the literary novel Blood: The New Red (Offense Mechanisms, an imprint of Silverthought Press, November 2011), as he virtually tours the blogosphere in March on his fourth virtual book tour with Pump Up Your Book!

About David S. Grant

David S. Grant is the author of ten books including Corporate Porn, Bleach|Blackout, Hollywood Ending, and Rock Stars. His latest novel, Blood: The New Red, is now available. David lives and writes his weekly rock, travel, and NBA columns from New York City. For more information go to http://www.davidsgrant.com Twitter: @david_s_grant

About Blood: The New Red

Blood: The New Red begins at an after party where Mickey, and ex-adult movie star turned supermodel, is aligning himself with one of the top Designers of Seventh Avenue. While trying to land a job on the runway Mickey is thrown into the center of a scene where sex is often the motivation, the wine is served by year, and cocaine is back in full force. Juanita, Mickey’s girlfriend is having difficulties staying sober, fully clothed, and off of her famous boyfriend.

Mickey goes to work for Fashion icon Paul Johnson, one of the two top Designers in NYC. The other is Sandy Johnson, another Designer who will stop at nothing including murder to guarantee victory. A runway exhibition has been scheduled for the two to compete in and find out who truly is the best Johnson. Mickey will be Paul’s top model, and Sandy has found a homeless person nicknamed Kung Fu Master to show his line.

In addition to getting his new line in place, Paul Johnson is also buying chain saws, the louder the better, to put the special in this special event.

Did you know that you can’t be sentenced to prison if actively seeking help at a mental facility? Paul Johnson knows this.

Somewhere between the girls, counting Vicodin pills, and show preparation Mickey has grown a conscience and no longer likes what he sees. He believes (and his psychiatrist agrees) that he has the power to change what’s happening around him.

David Grant’s BLOOD: THE NEW RED VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR will officially begin on March 5 and end on March 23, 2012. Please contact Cheryl Malandrinos at ccmal(at)charter(dot)net if you are interested in hosting and/or reviewing his book. Thank you!

Will: So Pudding, ever since you first appeared in the strip Casey and Kyle last year, you’ve been one of the most popular characters. It seems like you’re always playing army soldier though… Don’t you ever get tired of playing army all the time?

Pudding: No. I drill constantly to keep myself in a state of permanent readiness. That’s why I’ve dug foxholes out in our yard so that I can keep watch over the street and make sure there aren’t any shady characters around.

Will: Doesn’t your mom get mad when you dig giant holes in the yard all the time?

Pudding: Not as mad as she gets when she falls into them in the dark.

Will: I notice you always seem to wear camo. Is there a reason for that?

Pudding: It makes it hard for my mom to find me for dinner.

Will: You don’t like dinner?

Pudding: It’s alright I guess… My mom always makes stuff like rib eye steaks, and roasted chickens and grilled salmon and stuff… she doesn’t know how to make real army food like MREs and C-Rations…

Will: Well, you seem to be having fun in Casey and Kyle. What do you see yourself doing in the future?

Pudding: Well one day, I hope to be in the Army. I don’t know if it’s going to work out though…

Will: Why not?

Pudding: My parents won’t let me play with guns. In fact, I can’t pretend with anything dangerous weapons. If I’m playing Rock, paper, scissors, I can only use paper!!!

Will: That’s terrible! Do you have any other ideas for what you could be when you grow up?

Pudding: I like animals. Maybe I could work with animals.

Will: What kind of animals do you like?

Pudding: The seals are my favourite. They remind me of the Navy SEALS.

Will: Any others?

Pudding: Army ants.

Will: Well, we’re almost out of time… I’ve got one last question: Who is your hero?

About Will Roberston

WILL ROBERTSON enjoys playing music and working on his serve in Tennis. His favorite beverage is an Iced Tea with no lemon. He loves Tacos and Panini Sandwiches and is fond of road trips. He is an avid mini golfer and an aggressive bumper car driver. He lives with his wife and two children in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. His house is yellow.

He started drawing comics on a road trip when he was twelve. Fueled by Bloom County, Garfield, Calvin and Hobbes and Peanuts, he began creating characters that would carry his own comic strip all the way through college. Along the way, his work was feature in The Statesman Journal (Salem, OR) and The News Register (McMinnville, OR) as well as being published nationally in a compilation of the best 100 Editorial cartoons by students across the US.

In late 2007, Will began to draw a series of cartoons based on his two boys. Those early drawings became the strip Casey and Kyle, which debuted online at comicsherpa.com (a new comic showcase developed by Universal Press Syndicate and gocomics.com) on February 6, 2008.

A year after its debut, Will published his first book of Casey and Kyle comics and began to shop his work to print as a self-syndicated feature. His work now appears in several publications, where it is read by nearly 200,000 readers.

When he is not drawing cartoons, he spends his days working with other self-published authors to bring their work to print, he illustrates books, hugs his wife and takes his kids to the park.

About Casey and Kyle: I’m Saving Up for a Big Brother!!!

Casey and Kyle is a strip about the fun and chaos of kids. It’s about the things you remember about your own childhood and (for anyone with kids) the way your own kids really are.

It goes deeper than your average kid strip and builds on the dynamic that exists between an older and younger sibling: The way the oldest always gets to be the hero; the younger the bad guy. It features a cacophony of neighborhood kids, each one making his own indelible stamp on the other characters.

Casey and Kyle appears online and in print where it is enjoyed by nearly 200,000 readers each month. Each book includes nearly 300 cartoons.

The door opened, and I stepped briskly into the room as the door was closed behind me. The lights were dim, and I looked around as my eyes adjusted. The room was bare but for a single wooden desk chair placed in the center. What little light the room possessed came filtered through slits in small, high windows along the wall before me. The chair faced into the blackness to my right. As I looked into the darkness in front of the chair, something moved. Something huge shifted and turned, and I backed towards the door as two monstrous tiger eyes glowed in the half-light and stared at me through the darkness. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck, and I clutched my clipboard to my chest.

“Grrrrreetings,” growled an impossibly deep voice in the corner. The R’s came out like a ferocious purr.

“Hell-hello,” I stammered, “Mister Pencha?”

“Just Pencha will be fine,” boomed the voice. “Please be seated.”

I didn’t much feel like sitting, in fact I was scrambling to remember why I had volunteered to conduct this interview. I was torn between a desire to throw down my clipboard and get out of the room as quickly as I could, and an inexplicable desire to sit in the chair both for the sake of curiosity and for a desire not to upset the owner of that voice. Drawing in a deep breath, I strode towards the chair and sat down rigidly, my clipboard on my lap. After a few long seconds, I exhaled.

“So, Mister Pen.. Pencha I mean. First, thank you for agreeing to this interview. It’s my first one, so I hope you’ll bear with me. Second, is there anything I can get you to drink, or …”

“I’ve alrrrrready eated, and I’m not thirrrrsty.”

Already eated? I thought, and a shiver ran down my spine.

“Oh,” I said nervously, “okay, then.”

What came next was a strange sort of deep growl, which, after a few unnerving seconds, I realized was a laugh – not an evil laugh, but deep and startling. Somehow that laughter set me at ease, a bit.

“Um,” I said, while straining to see my papers in the dim light, “so, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions about yourself. Like, for one, your name, does it mean something? The name Pencha, I mean. I’ve never heard it before.”

“My rrrrrrrreal name is not Pencha. Your thrrrrroat could not prrrrrronounce my rrrrreal name,” he said as he got up from the corner and moved towards me. “A verrrrry old frrrrriend gave me the name Pencha, long, long ago. I do not know what it means. Knowing my frrrriend though, I know it must mean something.”

“Ah, I see. Well, now, “ I said, abandoning my list of questions for the moment, “you said, long, long ago a friend gave you the name. What do you mean by that, how long ago?”

“Time is hard to say. Yourrrrrr planet and mine orrrrbit at differrrent rrrrates. In yourrrrrr yearrrrrs it would be … mill … mill,” he said, clearly trying to sort something out, or remember the right word. “Thousands of thousands of yearrrrrrs. But wait now, no, I wasn’t always Pencha. She gave me otherrrrr names beforrrre. Pencha has been my name forrrrr just a few thousand of yourrrr yearrrs.”

As he talked he moved directly in front of me, and, though my eyes could not see so well as they would in full light, I could see him clearly now. He was huge, perhaps the size of that monstrous grizzly on display in the Anchorage airport. His fur was black, and his body was an unearthly combination of primate and feline. His upper body was disproportionately larger than his lower; his limbs all ended in massive claws with two opposable thumbs on each hand, and his tail had a tuft like that of a male lion. The shape of his skull was almost human, with a large cranium and a long face with slits for nostrils and a mouth that displayed both upper and lower fangs with sharp teeth between them that flashed white whenever he spoke. His ears were at the sides of his head, like a man’s, but were black and pointed at the top. One look in his huge, feline eyes let me know he was no beast, for reflected there was an intelligence and a sadness that reminded me of the eyes of an aged general my ex-military father introduced me to when I was a child.

“You say, your world orbits at a different rate than Earth does? What else can you tell me of your home?”

“My home? My home is called … I cannot rrrememberrr the name in English. Otherrr languages have always been harrrd for me. In my language, the name is beautiful and sounds like our worrrd for forrrest. Eterrrnal forrrest might be a simple trrranslation, though therrre is so much morrre to it. And now the forrrests arrre gone, the ones I rrrememberrr. Only a tiny stand rrremains, though it is still bigger than any forrrest on Earrrrth. Therrre are mountains and rrriverrrs and strrreams and lakes, but therrre is nothing like the oceans you have herrre.”

“Interesting. And, on your world, I’m assuming, your people are the dominant species, like humans are on Earth?”

His eyes looked away from me for the first time since I’d entered the room, and he looked at the floor as he answered.

“Sometimes I think therrre arrrre no dominant species, as you say. Sometimes, I think that the birrrds and the trrrees know morrre than us. I know you would say therrre arrre two dominant species, my people and otherrrs who usually look like you do.”

“Humans? Are you saying there humans on your world?”

“They arrrre not human, but they look like you. They have been on my worrrld forrr as long as I can rrrememberrr, though therrre arrre morrre and morrre of them. I do not know if they came frrrom somewherrre else. I only know of the warrrs,” he said as his eyes once again turned towards me.

“So, you are at war with the humans … I mean the human-like race?”

“No. Not now. Now, they fight themselves, and we leave them alone. Therrre arrre too few of us left.”

“So, about the humans on your world. Is it like Earth? I mean, what level of technology exists on your world? Are there, ah, computers? Rocket ships? Cities?”

“Not that I know of. They arrrre not like most humans. They do not invent like you do. They have castles, and they have books. They study the starrrs, but they do not carrre to crrreate new things like humans do. Neither do we.”

“Really? I wonder why not. But nevermind, I am running out of time here, but before I go, I am reminded of a couple of questions I wanted to ask before. You said your name was not always Pencha, and that someone else gave you the name. Who is this friend, one of your people, I’m assuming? Someone you have known for thousands of thousands of years? Why would this person give you your name? What is this person’s name?”

Pencha growled as I finished asking this string of questions. It was not the laughing growl.

“I have many names in many places, and you have many questions!” He paused. His feline eyes narrowed to slits, and he stared deeply into my eyes as he continued. “I do not speak of my frrriends to otherrrs. I do not have many frrriends. But I will tell you that this frrriend has even morrre names than I do. I do not know them all. My frrriend is not one of my people, today…”

Just then there was a knock at the door. The time I had been allotted for my interview had come to an end.

“Ah, so many more questions. I’m sorry, but I have to go now. Thank you for letting me have this interview. Can I talk to you again sometime?”

“You arrrre quite welcome. The pleasurrrre has been mine. Of courrrse you may speak to me again. Perrrrhaps we will meet soonerrrr than you think,” he said, and one of his huge eyes blinked before he turned away and paced back towards the corner of the room.

***

James R. Bottino’s life-long interests mix esoteric and disparate fields of study. By day, his foremost influences have been the study of literature and the art of writing. Following these pursuits led him to read anything he could in these areas and to complete every under-graduate and graduate course available to him in the field of creative writing. Following this line, he taught high school English throughout the 1990’s, focusing on the teaching of writing.

By night, when no one was looking, he studied computer systems / networks, computer languages, and operating systems, learning anything he could in these areas, first as a hobby, and, finally, as a career. This mixture of literature and technology served as the inspiration for the The Canker Death’s protagonist, Petor.

James currently lives in a suburb of Chicago, with his wife, daughter, two Australian cattle dogs and far, far too many books and abstruse computers.

Join James Bottino, author of the fantasy and science fiction novel The Canker Death as he virtually tours the blogosphere in February 2012 on his first tour with Pump Up Your Book!

About James Bottino

James R. Bottino’s life-long interests mix esoteric and disparate fields of study. By day, his foremost influences have been the study of literature and the art of writing. Following these pursuits led him to read anything he could in these areas and to complete every under-graduate and graduate course available to him in the field of creative writing. Following this line, he taught high school English throughout the 1990’s, focusing on the teaching of writing.

By night, when no one was looking, he studied computer systems / networks, computer languages, and operating systems, learning anything he could in these areas, first as a hobby, and, finally, as a career. This mixture of literature and technology served as the inspiration for the The Canker Death’s protagonist, Petor.

James currently lives in a suburb of Chicago, with his wife, daughter, two Australian cattle dogs and far, far too many books and abstruse computers.

About The Canker Death

When the reclusive, cynical systems administrator, Petor Fidelistro, discovers that one of his own servers has been cracked late one night, he makes it his personal business to track down the perpetrator. What his search uncovers thrusts him, unaware, into a mad shifting between worlds, time and alien minds.

Fighting to keep his grip on reality, and forcing him to cope with his past, Petor finds himself uncontrollably transitioning between sentient minds that range from semi-conscious to dominant, from beings whose bodies and identities he can control, to those who control him so fully as to be unaware of his presence.

As the story unfolds, Petor gathers clues in a twisting mystery that sends him shifting between the mourning child Nanzicwital; the golem giant Faskin; the lascivious, female ambassador Desidia; and Nokinis, an insane prisoner with whom Petor battles for mastery of his own memories. As he struggles to make sense of what is happening to him, Petor finds himself embroiled in the tumultuous upheaval of a ubiquitous society that transcends life, itself.

What Reviewers Are Saying

5.0 out of 5 stars Cliffhanger after cliffhanger! I couldn’t put it down!, September 3, 2011

This review is from: The Canker Death (Kindle Edition)

The Canker Death by James R. Bottino is a mystery, a spiritual awakening, a suspenseful and funny book with complex characters and worlds. This book reminds me a bit of Roger Zelazny’s Chronicles of Amber series and also reminds me that good ideas are still out there amidst the plethora of over-worked, tired concepts prevalent in our world today.

How did the author slip in symbolism and deep themes all the while entertaining us with the “full monty” of sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll and stuff that explodes? I’m not sure, but by the time I’d finished The Canker Death, it made me laugh, cry, hang on by the seat of my pants, and shout “SEQUEL!!!” (although the book does stand well on its own.)

Also, while reading, I found the Vitruvian Man map full of symbols, character names and concepts to be a provocative and neat little extra feature. I highly recommend this original tome!

Hello, my name is Adrienne and I am a server at Au Lapin Agile in Montmartre, France. Oui, oui, I know…we are technically part of Paris now in the late nineteenth century…but we still think of ourselves as our own little village.

One of the other servers I work with is Sophie. How she got a job here I don’t know! She is so little she can barely carry a tray of drinks, and the raucous, raunchy clientele we serve are not afraid to flirt shamelessly with us! She is not from here, but from the Pigalle area of Paris. Not a very nice place, if you ask me, but there are respectable pockets and she lives with her Aunt in one of them.

Anyway, she has stars in her eyes over the worst of the womanizers that frequent Au Lapin Agile: the stunningly handsome artist Gastien Beauchamp. Ha! He is known to bed dozens of women, but they must be rich-and they must be married. What is Sophie thinking? Here she comes now. I am going to try to talk some sense into her.

“Sophie! Sit down a minute, while it is quiet. You need to take a break. By the way, are you still mooning over that womanizer Gastien?” I try to stare her down.

Sophie blushes as she sits, but refuses to break eye contact. “Adrienne, will you quit calling him that? I know what Gastien does. But, oui, I am crazy about him. I have been crazy about him since that night he forced an apology out of that man who touched me. I just can’t help it! He is so handsome, so kind-“

“KIND? He came to your rescue simply to show off! Trust me, Gastien is only interested in women for one thing, and it would NOT involve your heart!”

“That is not true! We have been friends now the whole summer and into autumn. He talks to me about things he talks to no one else about. Gastien trusts me and I am certain that he loves me. He is just too scared to admit it.”

I shake my head. This woman is truly delusional! “Sophie, he only makes love to rich, married women. He does not want commitment; he is married to his art. The man does not even date single women. In the past he has gone out with a few…until he could get them into his bed! Now he does not even look at them. If you want more than conversation, I suggest you find someone in your league. You should be looking for a husband; someone who can take care of you! You are cute. You could find a nice man to settle down with and have a nice home!”

“Adrienne, I want Gastien. I have told myself over and over that Gastien is not good for me. I know he does not want commitment. I know that. But I don’t care. Look, I am a grown up. I want him. It does not seem to matter what my brain says, my heart says it is Gastien.”

“Well, if he wanted you, he would have acted by now. Obviously he does not see you as a potential lover. How much plainer can he make it?”

“Oh, he wants me all right. He is just afraid of how bad he wants me. For some reason, he is afraid that he will hurt me and he is not willing to take the next step.”

“Gastien, afraid of a woman? Hardly! How much longer can you go on playing this game? It is not good for you. Time is passing. Break it off and find someone that can provide for you! My God, girl, leave it and move on!”

“I cannot and I will not! In fact, since he is afraid to take the next step, I have decided that it is up to me. I am determined to end up in Gastien’s bed tonight. He does not know it yet, but he is going to make me his before this night is over. I will no longer be a virgin. I will be Gastien’s woman.”

I sigh. “Oh, Sophie. If you do that, you will be an even bigger fool than I thought. No man will want you after being used by a bohemian! Don’t do that to yourself! Even if you do manage to seduce him, he will just use you and walk away!”

“No, he won’t. I know he loves me. He is just as much mine as I am his. He just won’t admit it yet. Once I kiss him, he won’t turn back.”

“Then God help you, Sophie. He has broken many hearts in the past and yours will be just another in the dusty pile.”

“Time will tell, Adrienne. I know what my heart tells me.”

“I wonder what you will tell that heart when it is shattered into a million pieces, Sophie. I really do.” I get up. There is no talking sense into her. “Time to get back to work. With any luck, he won’t show up tonight. For your sake, I hope he doesn’t.”

I am Gastien Beauchamp, artist and lover. Any Frenchman would tell you that a peasant could never own property in nineteenth century France.

Yet here I am, in my very own studio.

The personal cost was horrendous. I barely survived the choices I made, and my sanity was pushed to its limits.

Still, I finally now have security, peace, and freedom. For the rest of my life I can spend time “making love to the color”, making love to beautiful women, and enjoying the wild nightlife of bohemian Montmartre. What more could a man need or want?

Then, one night, I see her. One look at Sophie, and my heart wants to betray me! I try to tell myself that I know better. Who needs love, anyway? I am already married-to my art!

No woman would ever understand and accept my lifestyle; nor am I about to give that lifestyle up! Not when I paid so dearly for it. Besides, I am too badly damaged to ever open up my heart…

About Caddy Rowland

Caddy Rowland grew up in the Midwest with a stack of books that almost reached the ceiling before she was five. Books, along with her vivid imagination, have always been her closest friends.

She lives in Minnesota with her husband, who was her high school sweetheart. They are owned by two parrots. Yes, they can talk, and yes, they can bite! Melanie, the African Grey has such an extensive vocabularly that Caddy sometimes thinks Melly is preparing to become an author.

After over 20 twenty years in advertising sales, Caddy decided to pursue her childhood dream of becoming an author in 2011. There are four books planned for the Gastien series, and many other books in her head. Now, if only she can learn to type 2000 words a minute…

Her goal as an author is to make readers laugh, cry, think, and become intimately connected with her main characters. To her, a good main character stays in the mind long after the story has been read. They should become as real in the mind as the person next door.